Date Night
by LittleLongHairedOutlaw
Summary: Christine has thought a great deal about Erik's hands, fantasised and dreamt about them. And a date that turns into their first time proves that those hands are all she suspected and more. Modern AU, sequel to Tinder Date


**A/N: A smutty, smutty fic written in honour ofwheel-of-fish's birthday. A sequel to Tinder Date, featuring grad students Erik and Christine and their first time.**

* * *

It is a collection of little things, coming together. The way his ears burn when she glances at him and licks the corner of her lip. The short, measured breaths he takes when she settles her hand on his thigh, the way he resolutely refuses to look at her but stays watching the screen, lips pursed and tight. She sips her wine and he swallows convulsively, inhaling sharply when her hand moves up just a little higher on his leg, just a little too high to be decent, the heat seeping through his jeans. It is the way he closes his eyes as if he is willing God to give him strength when she brushes her fingertips over the inside of his wrist.

She does not make her move that night. But his kiss is more heated than normal, and he presses himself closer to her, as they say their goodnights outside her door.

She greets Nan with a smile, tells her that she still hates _Wyatt Earp_ as much as she always did and that she plans to get her own back against Kate for dragging her to it (the occasional little white lie is useful for disguising the fact that she made the whole thing more enjoyable by teasing Erik), and then she takes her tea and retires to her room.

She might not have Erik with her tonight, but her fingers have always been skilled.

* * *

Erik has really wonderful hands. She thinks about them quite a lot, possibly more than is healthy. Thin, delicate hands with spindly fingers that make every movement endlessly elegant. They wrap around hers, make hers seem so very small, and she is possessed by the thought of how they might feel on her, fingertips tracing her skin, brushing over a nipple. Dipping between her legs.

Her mouth dries at the thought.

They would be cool, no doubt. Possibly even cold, until warmed by her own heat. His hands are often cold; it's a part of his condition. And when she told Nan about it, that her boyfriend has cold hands but his hands are too big for most gloves, Nan sat down and knitted him two pairs, with fingers and without, and gave to her to have for the next time she saw him.

And the way his face lit up when she took his hand and slipped the first glove of the first pair on made her heart flutter.

(Still makes her heart flutter just to think of.)

She wakes from a dream of those hands, wrapped around her hips, pulling them flush against his, and in the darkness of her room, in the hazy place between sleeping and waking, half-tangled in her duvet, she seeks solace from her fingers and imagines that they might be his.

* * *

It is a cold evening in early April, spring threatening an appearance but not yet arriving, and they have been together for barely a month. It is a week on from _Wyatt Earp_ , and the History Society are showing _Tombstone_ "to provide a comparison so the first years can use it in their History Through Film module". Though they have, naturally, been invited to the showing, the promise of wine and pizza dangled before them, they have each, resolutely, refused to attend, Erik grumbling that he sees enough of it at John Henry's annual October showing, but ceding that he enjoys the music. Christine, for her part, is still scarred from having made the comparison in her own exam once upon a time. It was by mutual treaty that they decided to have a date instead, but they couldn't decide on where to go, and _Tombstone_ was beginning to look tempting when the thought occurred to them that they could just go for a walk.

It is a lovely evening for a walk, just about cold enough that their breath mists in the air, and they lean into each other for extra warmth.

Neither of them, it turns out, really know how to go for a romantic walk.

Which is how they end up on the lane out to the hotel that used to be the estate house for the Dukes of Leinster, with Christine telling Erik about Lord Desmond Fitzgerald who once lived there and who got blown up by a hand grenade thrown by a priest in a training camp during World War I. Erik snorted and mused that perhaps he ought to compose something about it, and when they'd gotten back around to the other end of the town and were walking across the green in front of the ruined castle, and she told him that this was where the beheadings took place when the castle fell in the seventeenth century, he said he absolutely had to compose something now and his laugh when she swatted at him and told him he wasn't taking her seriously lit up the town.

He kissed her, then and there, under the tower where the third Duke is buried, and any feigned annoyance with him dissipated at the heat of his lips against hers.

They go for pizza, pepperoni and peppers and extra cheese, and with a bottle of cheap shiraz from the shopping centre beside the old mill they settle on a bench by the canal, the pizza balanced on their knees, drinking the wine from the clear plastic cups they bought.

"Nadir would hate to see us," Erik grinned, licking the pizza sauce from the corner of his lip. "He's such a wine snob."

He's missed a spot of the sauce, and it sits there just daring her to do something about it.

"Let me get that for you," she murmurs, and kisses it away.

And for a few heavenly, sweet minutes, the pizza and the wine are both forgotten.

* * *

Their legs are weak when they arrive back at his place, and it is not from the wine because the bottle is still almost full though the taste of it is heady off his lips. They settle on his bed, cuddling into each other as they wait for the heating to come on, music playing softly from his laptop.

They are each still dressed, still wearing their coats even, but she kisses his neck and it is like a private agreement that this is it, this is the night.

(The whole sex thing is something that they have never actually discussed, no matter how many times he's brushed up against her dancing, or she's had to restrain herself from squirming in her lap as they kissed.)

Her hand skims down, palm rubbing the growing bulge between his legs and his breath hitches, hand curling tight around the nape of her neck.

"Are you sure?" The words are barely a whisper, soft as a thought in her ear, even though he said them out loud, he definitely said them out loud.

"More than sure," and as if to emphasise her point, she eases the shirt from his jeans, fingertips skimming the warm skin beneath his navel, the trail of hair, oddly soft.

He exhales, swallows. "Christ."

Those hands, those beautiful hands, are gentle easing the coat from her shoulders, her own hand easing open his belt, the top button of his jeans, the zip, and as her fingers slip beneath the waistband of his shorts, he rolls her, carefully, onto her back.

Her blouse opens beneath his fingers, and he slips it over her shoulder, gazing rapt upon the black bra beneath, lace resting light on her skin, the soft breasts that he has dreamt of, creamy pale. How long has it been since he's been with a woman? Longer than he cares to remember and yet here she is, ready, waiting, the most beautiful woman and the most beautiful pair of breasts he has ever seen even if he cannot fully see them yet, and he aches to savour her, for them to take their time, but the coil is already wound tight beneath his navel, whispering of a quick release at the touch of her hand if he wants to give in to her, to the easy way she is rubbing him, the way he is lengthening, half-hard all evening just on the scent of her hair, of her breath on his neck, of her voice in his ear, and it needs such little encouragement, his breaths already hitching short, heart pounding.

It will be over too soon if he is not careful, and he bites his lip, wraps his hand around her wrist and stills her.

"Let me treat you," he whispers, lips brushing hers, and she nods, sighs into his mouth.

"If you wish."

God, but he could go mad for her.

 _Focus, Erik, focus._

He closes his eyes a moment, takes a deep breath to steady himself, and then kisses her neck. When he opens his eyes again it is to see that the bra unclasps at the front, an easy mechanism and it is the work of two fingers to open it, to let those beautiful breasts free.

He could write poetry to them and their rose-pink nipples that are crying out to feel his lips. There is a blue vein tracing close to the surface, and he follows it with his tongue, tries not to shiver as she inhales sharply. There is a whimper low in her throat as he kisses her nipple, mouths it, and she tastes of salt, tastes of the cold air, tastes of frosty sunsets on autumn evenings and he shudders, cock straining again at his shorts.

 _Slowly, Erik, slowly._

And then he remembers.

The wine.

* * *

 _What is he doing?_ she wonders as he smiles at her and rolls off the bed. She's cold without the warmth of him, without his body pressed to her and she is briefly tempted to pull her blouse around herself for heat, but instead she pulls it off, throws it to the floor along with her coat and unbuttons her skirt while he fumbles in his bag. It is simple to kick off her shoes, to pull her tights down while still leaving her skirt on (just to tease him, just a bit, showing just enough skin to hint at the rest), and when she settles back against the bed, he grins at her and holds the bottle of wine aloft.

The taste is heady off his lips when he kisses her, and a thrill runs through her.

But he is still far too dressed for her taste, and she slips off his coat, unbuttons his jacket and condemns it to the floor, her fingers setting to work on his shirt as he kisses her neck, runs his tongue over her clavicle, and it is not long before his shirt joins her clothes on the floor, and his shoes follow them as she judges his ankle to prompt him.

God but his tongue is the ninth wonder of the world, right behind his hands.

His _hands,_ one of which is cupping her left breast, thumb circling her nipple and sending little shocks through her, the other brushing her side, her stomach, slipping, _oh God_ , slipping beneath her skirt.

Slipping beneath her knickers.

Pulling her knickers down and disturbing her skirt only slightly, just enough to give him more room to work. It's all she can do to keep still and not grind herself against his leg.

And his fingers are warmer than she expected they might be when they part those lips hidden between her legs and rest, ever so lightly, on her clit.

She swallows the whimper that rises in her throat.

He kisses her full on the mouth and pulls back.

"Now for something a little more exciting." The sparkle in his eyes is the single most enticing thing she has ever seen in the world.

And as his finger slowly begins to stroke her there in her most hidden place, and little gasps escape her throat, he reaches for the open bottle of wine, and spills a trickle of it between her breasts.

It runs in a rivulet between her ribs, staining her skin, pooling in her belly button, and before she can wonder, his free hand is twining with one of hers, his finger pressing down on her clit, circling a little firmer.

His tongue makes her shiver when he sets it to the rivulet of wine, and slowly, slowly, follows its trail down.

She cannot pay attention to his lapping, not when his finger is rubbing up and down and her thighs are clenching against his hand, helpless to let him be, and then it is not just his finger but his whole hand rubbing against her, palm firm and solid and she squeezes it tight until one finger, one solitary, wonderful finger, slips inside of her.

She chokes on the air, head tilting back, teeth clenching and she doesn't realize he has pulled down her skirt until there is a second finger slipping inside her to join the first, easing in, and out, and in, and out, so slow, each knuckle catching her entrance, and she moves with it, pressing herself against his hand as tight as she can, aching to take his mouth and kiss it, bite his lips, suck on his tongue, but that tongue is still travelling, is licking more wine, is soft along the crease of her hip and she arches her back, a third finger making her whimper before his hand guides her hand to his cock and she wraps her fingers around it and pulls gently, up and down, careful not to hurt him, up and down, a little faster, and he keens, arches into her as she strokes her thumb over the head, feels the oozing dampness of his slit that whispers that he's aching for her as much as she is for him.

He hisses against her skin, his teeth a hard ridge, and then his tongue is gone, is gone—

Is back. Is pressed to her clit. Is all she can feel, all she can know as he licks, and licks, tongue flicking softly, circling, pressing, suckling, and her eyes are open but she does not remember opening them, the room spinning around her, her breaths coming in sharp gasps, chest too tight to breathe, stomach too tight, everything too tight, everything aware only of him, of his tongue swirling, licking, kissing and she's going to come, she is, going to come here and now riding his face and—

And she is coiled so tight, tears in her eyes, his cock pulsing in her hand, when he withdraws his fingers and his voice is hoarse against her as he croaks, "Condom."

Fuck the condom! She's on the pill. She hasn't been with anyone in months, she needs him in her _now_ , they don't have time for this! And she is just about to tell him so and a whole lot more for making her wait, but his lips are on hers, and she can taste herself in her mouth, tastes salt and musk and she deepens the kiss, needs more of it, needs every bit of it, every bit of her from him, and as well as herself she tastes pepperoni and goddamn shiraz, and a crinkling reaches her ear, his hand brushing hers away from his cock and he arches himself without breaking the kiss and then her fingers skim plastic stretched taut.

He smiles into her mouth.

"Better."

And he breaks the kiss, eyes shining golden, fanned by his dark lashes, damp with tears, with exertion, every part of her aching for him, begging, and he angles his hips, and she arches up to meet him.

There is no pain as he enters, only fullness, and she presses herself tighter to him, wraps her legs around his hips to pull him to her as close as she can, and they fit together as if they were always meant to be, as easily as if he has always been inside of her, and one of his hands squeezing hers tight, his other one squeezing her breast, stroking her nipple, and he is kissing her, kissing her mouth and the corner of her mouth and her neck and her collarbone his hips rock him in and out of her and in and out and she cannot keep her eyes open, hears only keening noises but which of them is making them she cannot tell, her, him, both?, and there are tears on her face but whose she cannot tell and she is gasping, gasping in time with his gasps against her, the heat building in her, begging, ready, so ready.

The pleasure, when it comes, ripples through her in waves, beautiful waves that reach her fingertips and make her shiver and make her heart throb, and a moment later he gives a strangled cry, presses deeper into her and collapses, gasping into her neck.

She feels his heart pounding through his chest, and kisses his hair, kisses his forehead, tastes the salt of tears and sweat, kisses every part of him that she can reach, rolls him over as he slips from her and kisses his closed eyes, kisses his throat, feels his pulse pounding against her lips, kisses his chest and his nipples and his ribs as he lies gasping beneath her and finally kisses his lips.

His tongue traces along the edge of hers, and he sighs.

* * *

Afterwards, when they are cleaned up, when they have drunk more of the wine and he has put on some soft violin music and they are wrapped together beneath his duvet, bare skin on bare skin and he has brought her to release with his tongue alone, and she has stroked his cock until he came on her belly, and he cleaned her up again and pleasured her a third time just with his fingertips and his mouth on his breasts, he holds her close as they lie sated and wrecked, and kisses her hair and whispers, "My hand skills have always been considered exemplary."

She laughs, and kisses one of those beautiful hands that have learned her in every way they possibly can. "Suspected and confirmed."

And the chuckle that rumbles through him is the single most beautiful sound in the world.


End file.
